Matched

Rachel swallowed hard. “Agree on what, exactly?”

“The three qualifications Mr. Right Now has to have to pass the Rachel Stephens test.”

“Three?” Rachel squeaked.

“Three.”

“A guy has to have more than three qualifications for me to consider getting down and dirty.”

“No, he doesn’t. If we were discussing Mr. Right? Sure. But we aren’t. This is Mr. Right Now. So three it is.”

Rachel scowled.

“You’re almost six feet yourself, so he has to be tall,” Casey said, starting the list.

“Kind,” Rachel countered.

“Kind is for counselors and protein bars.”

“Casey,” Rachel warned.

“He needs to be seriously hot.”

“Intelligent,” Rachel countered. While a guy being hot was nice, his looks did nothing to help a conversation along if he wasn’t bright.

“Intelligent can be a bonus qualifier. This is a one-night stand, Rach, not someone who’s boyfriend material.”

“Fine. But, Casey?” She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to imagine what strangers might see when they looked at her. “There has to be chemistry. Real chemistry. That’s not negotiable.”

“Then there’s your list.”

“What?” Panic nearly choked her. “That’s not enough!”

“Yes, it is. For a one-night stand, it’s plenty.” That tone—it was one Rachel recognized.

That tone meant Casey had reached the point she was about to let down the facade she sported, the one of the fun-loving, slightly ditzy blonde femme fatale. One could push Casey only so far and then boom! She dropped the facade and the hard-ass took over. Rachel had her own version, she supposed. Or she had once. Regardless, she didn’t want to fight with Casey. She needed her too much right now.

“Now promise me—swear to me—that if you meet a guy with these three qualities, you’ll make a play.”

Rachel swallowed once, then twice, through a throat clenched tight in history’s unyielding fist. She took a deep breath, admiring the way the dress made her full B-cup breasts look just a little larger, the push-up bra making her cleavage just a little more substantial than it really was. “Remind me to send a thank-you note to Victoria’s Secret for their water bra.”

Casey laughed. “Deets, girlfriend. I want the down and dirty tomorrow because I’m telling you now, there will be a connection tonight.”

Rachel closed her eyes and smiled. Maybe Casey was right. Maybe tonight was the night she’d back take her life.

No. No maybes about it. Tonight was the night. She would own it, and whatever happened? Happened. “I promise,” she whispered. “Casey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m back.”

The other woman sniffled, the sound small but undeniable, and her voice wavered a bit when she spoke. “I’ve missed you, Rach.”

“Me, too, honey. Me, too.” She stood up straight and took one last look at herself in the mirror. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have men to meet and connections to make.” She paused for a split second, trying to find the right words. Then she said, “Thank you, Casey. Thank you for standing by me and for reminding me who I really am.”

“Thank you for finally listening. Now go slay the last of your dragons, and do it without remorse.” The grin on her friend’s face translated seamlessly to her tone.

“No regrets,” she affirmed.

Casey disconnected the call without another word.

Rachel grabbed her satin clutch and dropped her bold red lipstick inside before snapping the little bag closed. One last glance in the small mirror beside her front door confirmed that the woman who looked back was ready.

Her eyes shone with a vitality she had missed for a very long time. She took a deep breath and pressed a fist against her abdomen in an attempt to settle sudden nerves fluttering behind her belly button. It didn’t matter if the man she connected with was Casey’s brother, the bartender or one of the software engineers for the Power Match app. If there was chemistry, she was going to see this through. A liberation, of sorts. But more, a definitive reclaiming of her life.

A small, involuntary smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

No regrets, indeed.

CHAPTER THREE (#ue1954000-3f85-5123-8dac-b14d743b5e7c)

ISAAC STOOD AT the bar, the crowd at his back, and sipped a dirty martini. Two olives. Shaken, not stirred. Alcohol—something he rarely indulged in—was the evening’s only saving grace.

Seeing as he had no intention of actually trying to find a partner tonight, it seemed pointless to pay any attention to the singles milling around the room. That included the three women who had, one at a time, attempted to engage him in conversation. He’d politely excused himself to speak to an acquaintance here or there, or to go back to the coat check to retrieve the phone he’d claimed he’d forgotten. Each woman had been irritated but had accepted his unsubtle dismissal. Not an ounce of real moxie in any of them. It surprised him that he was mildly disappointed.

Behind him, the crowd mingled and made small talk as they tried to figure out whom in the group they might end up paired with. There was a great deal of forced laughter from women and posturing from men. Both groups were trying too hard. So Isaac continued to sip his drink and ignore them all.

The moderator entered his peripheral view, and he watched as she took over the small platform where the DJ likely held court on any given night. The woman, whom Isaac recognized from one of the meetings between his investment firm and Jonathan’s lead team, fiddled with the mic. What was her name...? Jamie? Janie? Something like that. She’d been impressive; he remembered that much. She was the team’s lead psychologist, stolen from a competitor, and the person singularly responsible for creating the personality-profiling system that Jonathan had turned into code.

Jaline.

Her name was Jaline.

The mic screeched, and the crowd winced before someone started clapping and everyone followed suit.

Jaline took a mock bow, then lifted the mic. “Good evening. My name is Jaline. You’re all here because—”

Half listening to Jaline’s presentation and half developing the following morning’s agenda, Isaac pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. There was no reason the interim couldn’t be turned into productive time. Opening the phone’s note-taking app, he began to tap out a rough outline for the first of three meetings scheduled before noon.

A round of applause had him lifting his head and looking around. People had begun to move en masse, approaching the makeshift stage from where Jaline had been speaking.

Isaac signaled the bartender. “What did I miss?”

“Instructions on how to find the love of your life, apparently.” The guy grinned. “If it were that easy, I’d be out of a job.”

Shaking his head, Isaac handed the guy a twenty. “Another drink, my friend, and the CliffsNotes version of the speech I just ignored.”

“Make your way to the table, pick up the paperwork with your first name, last initial and unique participant ID. Men go the numbered table to which they’ve been assigned.” The bartender shook the drink with expertise and poured it with little more than a glance at the glass. “The app’s magic algorithms ensure that at least one woman who has a compatible personality and similar interests will make her way to your table. If you’re lucky, Cupid will follow before the clock strikes twelve—” he slid the drink to Isaac “—or the bar closes at two. Whichever comes first.”